When they arrive at the training terminal, Emi is relieved to find it empty; her health has fallen to 11% on the draining hop down the circular hallway and the wet uniform has turned every crevice of her skin raw. She drops to her hands and aching right knee—and the distal end of the residual left leg—to crawl inside the small pod that appears to have been designed using a windowless laundry machine as inspiration.
The door closed, she slides the blacked-out goggles over her eyes, completing the sensory deprivation process. In their homes, a measly four users wearing similar headsets think about swiping to another inmate’s camera feed—side missions tend to stall, rather than boost, user engagement.
All around her, the displayed mountain-clearing scenery stands frozen.
Monitor fidelity has come a long way in ten years.
“Functionality, on the other hand, has not changed much.”
My father only let me wear mine for five minutes a week.
“A wise decision.”
Emi tries to unpause the training video. Resume Video.
“This is not a video.”
Resume game.
“You’re already playing the game.”
Pause game, then.
“Game paused.”
The tutorial comes to life, tapping into her neural implant via Bluetooth so she thinks she can feel the warm breeze, see the black hair blowing loose in front of her eyes, hear the whispering trees, smell the salt in the air, and even taste the copper adrenaline on her tongue as if she has been transported back through time. Goosebumps rise from her pale skin.
She shivers in the cold pod, It feels so real.
Her father stands ten steps from her, talking with the voice of a woman—Queen Bee’s voice to be precise. “Level 1 Terminal discovered.”
I wouldn’t call it a discovery; you led me right to it.
“Terminal waypoints are unavailable on all levels after the tutorial is complete.”
Not sure I’d call it a tutorial either; you made me figure everything out on my own.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“You talk in circles, like a thoughtless child.” He/she starts to walk towards her wearing a red gi; a black belt completes the ensemble. The emblem stitched to his chest—the emblem of the Shura clan—is that of a horned red-faced devil. The devil bows.
Wow, you are spot on with his movement patterns.
He crouches, lifting dust from the warm stone at his feet just to watch it slip between his fingers.
Wait…is this actually from my memory? It must be because we were the only two on the mountain. How are they doing this? Can you access all my memories? Show me how he died!
Her father, his voice now his own, speaks the words as she remembers them. “Too much thinking, not enough learning Emi. No time to think.” He swings a leg beneath her and pulls, not bothering to hide the attack that sends his young student—and daughter—to the unpadded ground.
In the terminal, despite knowing the ‘move’ was coming, the circling sky as the girl fell to the ground causes the adult Emi to also fall flat on her undertrained ass. Both Emis stand and rub the general flattened area, then suddenly roll to their feet. Emi in the present slams her elbow several times against the walls of the pod, sending shockwaves rather than pain rippling up-and-down her ‘bones’.
Her father pontificates in the way that seems to be ingrained in all fathers. “You are smaller than our enemies. You must fight dirty.” He holds his palm flat, allowing the gust of wind at his back to blow a cloud into her face.
Emi spits, “Baka,” as she tries to wipe her eyes. Present her thinks the same, as she swipes the goggles onto her chin.
“Show respect!” He slams her onto the ground, this time teaching a different lesson.
She rises, the taste of blood washing her tongue clean. She swallows, then bows. “What about honor?”
“Honor died with your mother. My daughter will not suffer the same fate.”
“Yamada-sensei teaches our destinies are unchangeable—Shukumei.”
His reply is drenched in disappointment. “Perhaps this is why he fails you.” She bows her head in shame as he continues. “They are unchangeable, unless you are willing to change. Unmei only becomes Shukumei when we are too slow to act.”
He attacks before she can register that he is dancing with treason. This time, he changes his attack. She rolls with the mobility of the eight-year-old gymnast she is, eluding him for a moment…and causing it to sound like someone is playing pinball inside the terminal. But he is too tall to be evaded for long; she falls for the third time.
The fourth time he attacks, she jumps at him as if going in for a hug. He tries to side-step the move, but she attaches herself to an arm and holds on for dear life—with her teeth. The pool of blood is refilled in her mouth. She lets go, steps back, and bows in fear. When she swallows, this time it is his blood she drinks. Pride warms her belly.
He laughs with relief upon shaking his arm and sending blood dripping to the unforgiving—but at least now well-dusted—rock he has decided to use for today’s training. He bows back to her, “Very good.”
She rubs her aching teeth as she stands to full height and tries unsuccessfully to release her clenched jaws. Her white gi is covered in sweat and blood in the memory; in the present, having escaped the raining laundry room encounter no more than an hour ago, her Hachijo Prison Outfit is far from dry but is at least stained with bleach in place of blood.
The harsh voice of her father becomes that of a soothing, but also sometimes-sadistic, Australian woman once more. “Specialty Move Unlocked: Kiss of Red. Warning: Movement detected. Health status below 10%...Health Status: 8%.”
In her encounter with the approaching inmate, which of her available moves should be deployed?
